From a Distance
by Tamer Lorika
Summary: Modern AU. Esca is living on the streets, running away from a warring home. Marcus is an ex-marine with a violent streak and a habit of picking up strays. When Esca sees Marcus - and starts to follow him - their relationship solidifies into something more
1. Chapter 1

x-posted to LJ ninth_eagle comm.

Err… Hello. I'm … really, really new to the fandom – writing it, I mean, though I've been stalking the movie, fics, and kink meme for longer than my schoolwork is happy with. I haven't written anything besides Hetalia, however, for almost two years now. I'm going to try really, really hard to keep these guys IC, so please, any and all comments you have on it would be lovely.

This is based on the fanvid by bachaboska on LJ and again, I hope I've stayed close to her vision. In case you don't notice, it's a modern-day AU.

(I feel like this is a trainwreck)

* * *

><p>The second time that Esca saw the man, it was exactly twenty seconds before the shit hit the fan.<p>

He was watching from the roof, at the time. Roofs were a good place to sleep, if you could get to them. No one bothered to patrol a roof, not of an apartment building, or a restaurant. No police lurked up there, and few muggers. There were venting shafts and chimneys that blew warm, fetid air when it was cold, and usually you could climb alley refuse or pipes or uneven bricks to get up to the top.

It was late morning when Esca woke up, that day. He ached all over, his head most of all – although, that had been his fault entirely. All of it had been his fault. He should have just said "no".

When Esca finally arched up the will to move, all he did was limp over to the wall around the edge of the roof and lean over. He looked, to all the world, as if he were dry-heaving (and perhaps, he felt a little sick) but he was just… looking. That's what he did. When his mum died, he didn't want to talk to anyone. He just sort of … retreated, and watched people from a distance.

His father had called him shy. His psychiatrist had called him antisocial. Some guy had called him a faggot pervert, and tried to beat his face in. Esca had beat him instead. Bit his ear off. At that point, his psychiatrist called him disturbed instead and things went downhill from there.

Anyway, he watched – he watched the people underneath his grimy fingers as they wandered about their daily business. He liked them. He liked watching them do things, inexplicably doing something, constantly. He didn't dislike people. No matter what anyone said he didn't hate people.

He watched for a long moment, trying to make out patterns in the flow of people, or picking something interesting and following them until they were out of sight. He was looking at a girl with bright yellow nylons and her ears gleaming with piercings, when man at the hotdog cart caught his eye. It was _him_, Esca knew immediately. Same jacket, different pants, same hair, different expression – of course, the first time Esca had seen him, he'd been asleep, zonked-out-exhausted-and-incredibly-tense asleep.

After that, it was just as he'd said – exactly twenty seconds of frozen staring before the man turned around and started beating the shit out of someone. Esca watched in rapt fascination, shutting out the noise and bustle of the world below until it was just –

The man pulled up abruptly, staring at his fallen victim, before turning on his heel and running, flat-out running away. Down a street. Towards a subway entrance. Away from Esca.

Esca moved then. He gathered up his backpack, the meagre contents still soggy from the rain last night, and slipped over the edge of the roof, hooking his fingers into the cold metal pipes and toeing his way down. As soon as he hit the ground, he was running.

He had to find that man.

This was the foremost thought behind his eyelids as he raced through the crowds he'd been content to observe from afar. He'd lost sight of the him as soon as he'd gone over the roof, but maybe if he just kept running, toward the subway entrance, maybe he'd find him just lounging there, waiting for Esca to come and find him.

The dirty green staircase to the belching center of the city was clear of lounging, waiting men, and Esca spat on the ground, vaguely feeling like he wanted to hit something as well. Fuck him, what was he even _doing_, following some guy who had beaten up a bloke at the hotdog cart?

But answering that question would be a lot like introspection, which seemed like something overly technical and psychological, which was to be avoided. He wasn't crazy. He just liked to watch people.

He watched people go up and down the subway entrance all day, searching for the flat brown hair and aggressive build that Esca knew he'd recognize anywhere. For a while, he even sat in the park where he'd seen the man asleep – the Fighter, he'd come to call him the Fighter, in his head. He didn't like the name for some reason, but he used it anyway. He looked for the Fighter in the park, but he didn't show up. Soon it got too dark for anyone to be in the park alone, and Esca was too hungry to keep up his search.

He bought hotdogs and trailmix at the convenience store and still had $46.80 left over of the fifty he'd gotten last night.

He wasn't a prostitute. He'd just said yes to fifty dollars from a man who looked like he wanted to be out on the street even less than Esca did.

Esca wasn't crazy, and he wasn't a prostitute.

He accepted fifty dollars again that night, as well.

* * *

><p>Esca slept on the same roof again, the one above the hotdog cart, and stared at the wall until morning, banging his head rhythmically on the concrete until it hurt too much and he had to stop. He was not a prostitute. He was not a prostitute. He just needed money and money was easy to get if you walked the streets and looked sort of small and easy.<p>

He ate some of the trailmix, wondering if he ought to go to the trouble of using the disposable razor in his backpack to clean himself up a bit. Instead, he fumbled down off the roof again and started walking towards the subway entrance. Maybe the Fighter came here every day. Maybe it was habit. Maybe Esca could catch him.

The day was colder than before, and he gave up sitting on the sidewalk after only an hour, retreating inside some greasy diner for a cup of soup. Esca decided to give up. Maybe he'd find somewhere new to sleep, somewhere on the complete opposite edge of the city, somewhere that he'd never think about the Fighter again.

He really should have read the irony there, because the moment he thought that, stepping out of the diner and intent to just walk away and not come back, he caught sight of a familiar blue jacket and straight, angry shoulders across the street, recognizing the Fighter walking towards him, on the opposite sidewalk.

For a moment, all that Esca could do was stop and stare – he never got tired of doing that – at the Fighter's face, tracing his strong roman nose, square chin, the red scratch across his cheekbone. He was limping, just a little, and Esca wondered if it was from the fight two days ago.

Too long spent staring – the Fighter was already walking away, down the street behind Esca, turning a corner, almost out of sight.

Esca did the only thing he could think of; he followed him.

He wasn't stupid – he knew that getting caught would probably result in bodily harm. The Fighter had beaten someone up in broad daylight, at a hot-dog cart for Chrissakes. So Esca stuck to his side of the street, half a block behind, almost completely obscured by the city rush of humanity and eyes locked on the Fighter as if his life depended on it.

The guy limped his way through block after block, and Esca fleetingly worried about his leg, if all the walking was good for it –

And then he was gone. Heart in throat, Esca cursed himself, letting himself get distracted. He's probably turned a corner, and Esca sprinted after him, stopped thinking and crossed the street – he heard the whine of car horns, but ignored them – skidding around the corner that the fighter had turned down –

He was standing there, a little down the block, at the door to some residential complex, and Esca skidded to a halt, realizing that he was now out in the open and the Fighter was _staring_ at him.

For a moment, their eyes locked, the Fighter's surprised and curious, Esca's wide and panicked, a wild animal caught suddenly in the middle of a city street.

The door to the place the Fighter was standing in front of swung open, and a voiced cooed at him – "Marcus, I was beginning to think you weren't coming -!" and it was at that point that Esca was able to marshal up enough self-awareness to break eye contact and bolt in the opposite direction. He felt the Fighter's gaze on him as he ran.

No. Marcus. His name was Marcus. That knowledge was going to have to content him for a while.

* * *

><p>Actually, it didn't content him. The next day, Esca was down at the same diner again; loitering as long as he could over coffee refills and watching out the front window. He needed a bath. He needed to get the dirt and the smell of other men off him. Fifty-five bucks last night; he'd gotten a tip. He felt pathetic, then even worse as he saw Marcus – Marcus, the sound was in his head, fuck his head, it hadn't helped him before – striding down the street.<p>

Esca waited a few seconds, wondering if he could just let Marcus walk away. He couldn't. He left the diner and followed him down the street, to that corner, waiting a long few minutes before turning himself. This time, he wouldn't get caught.

He caught sight of the familiar blue jacket and gym bag as it slipped inside the house. The door shut, and Esca looked for easy access to a roof. Any roof. There was a pile of scrap wood and old furniture in an alleyway, and he used it to boost himself onto the sloping tops of the apartments, picking around chimneys and over hangs and pigeon hideouts, trying not to make too much noise – maybe the people in the houses below could hear him.

And there. Here. He sat down, perched behind the rough stonework of a chimney and found himself staring into a window, wide and unshuttered, with a generous view of a small kitchen and a wood table and a woman who looked a lot like Marcus (same sharp lines, same strong face) and Marcus himself. They sat at the table, drinking out of mismatched mugs, and Esca watched Marcus smile.

Esca slid forward on the roof a little, his grip on the tiles faltering. He… very much liked that smile. It was stupid, but he did. A lot of things Esca liked were stupid – vanilla ice cream and running for no reason and watching people from roofs – but this, a single smile, was the stupidest of all.

Didn't matter much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much to everyone who expressed interest in this! I really appreciate it…**

**Here, have an update.**

* * *

><p>Esca found himself coming back to the house the next day, the next, ignoring bruises from people who just happened to be paying for sex, ignoring the cold of late October, ignoring the fact that he was spying on some man he didn't even know.<p>

The woman, whose house he went to, was married – to someone else, someone who came home around sunset. Esca was relieved. She kissed the man soundly and Marcus rolled his eyes and snuck out the front door.

Esca followed him when he left the woman's house, too, when he walked or sometimes limped to a much worse part of town with stringy apartment buildings all crammed on top of one another.

It continued, the haphazard following, for two weeks, right up until the week after Halloween, and then Esca ran into a problem. Or rather, it ran into him.

It was raining – always fucking raining, here, almost as bad as it had been in London, when he'd gone to visit family – and he was just trying to keep his head low; forget customers, he just needed an overhang to sleep under that night. He wouldn't abandon the roof above the hotdog cart, not for good, but right now he was shivering so hard that his bones ached. He was wandering, maybe, wasn't looking out like he should, and it wasn't long before he'd been picked up on by a few guys, rough types, eyeing his backpack and easily cornering him in some grey, half-covered alley.

Even as he saw the walls closing him on three sides and the three bruisers in the alley entrance, he pulled out the switchblade he had in his pocket – a sharp, impressive thing that his dad had kept in the garage, until Esca had stolen it, before he left. It was supposedly a family heirloom, but no one ever used it or even took it out, and Esca had thought to get some use out of it. Well, now he was going to.

Or, at least, try to. Esca, despite having gotten into his fair share of scraps growing up, had never actually been in a knife fight. Maybe it showed. The guys in front of him were laughing pretty unconcernedly at his weapon, and they didn't look to be armed.

The first guy, in front, bandana around his shaved head and stereotypical oversized wifebeater askew, cracked his knuckles theatrically. "We just wanted ta see what you've got in the backpack, maybe if you'd be willin' ta share. Guess you're gonna give us some excitement 'nstead, huh?" Brainless lackey one and two grunted an affirmative – Esca dubbed them such, and then wondered why he wasn't more panicked.

He wondered that again, as, in short order, he was kicked flat on his face, disarmed, and hammered in the kidneys a few times until he'd lay still and they could work one of his hands up behind his back in a nasty hold. One of the guys was crouching further away, nursing the broken nose Esca had supplied him with; one of the ones that held him was bleeding form a shallow slash in his chest. At least he wasn't completely helpless. He knew he'd connected in a few more places, as well; they'd have bruises in the morning, and Wifebeater had definitely cracked a finger. At least he wasn't completely helpless. Some comfort.

Bollocks, that should have been harder, Esca thought, spitting dirt and blood – must have bit his tongue when someone got him in the jaw - onto the concrete beneath his face.

The third guy, the lead with the wifebeater, was contemplating Esca's dad's knife in a way that couldn't be healthy. Well, fuck, he was dead. He was going to die right here, just another homeless kid, another prostitute, in some alley. Served him right, Esca supposed. Got the shit kicked out of him, stalked some man for two weeks, got fucked by guys for money. He was pathetic.

"…so next time, you play nice and just let us have the bag, right?" Wifebeater was telling him, clicking the blade. In. Out. It shone in the dirty starlight.

Esca still hadn't panicked, and he figured he wasn't going to. He was going to die here, and maybe it was a relief. If he couldn't control anything else in his life, at least he was going out with some dignity. He wouldn't scream or beg or even make a sound. He'd just let these guys have him and be done with it.

Broken Nose was rifling through Esca's things, presumably to find something to staunch the bleeding. "Aw, he's almost worthless. I found a few fifties in the bottom of this, but all he's got are some tee shirts and a razor – he ain't got shit."

Wifebeater shrugged. "Ain't no matter. I was bored tonight anyway."

Esca was going to die. Esca was going to die.

Then:

"Yo, Claudio. I thought I recognized your greasy voice."

So maybe Esca was dead already – maybe his idea of heaven was something cliché spilling from the mouth that he'd watched smiling and grimacing and _moving_ for two weeks, because this wasn't happening. Not to him. Not now.

"Huh, Marcus, always pick the worst times to show up," Wifebeater Claudio snorted back. The other men watched them warily, as if sensing Marcus was someone Not To Be Messed With. Esca was just contemplating how far his imagination was gonna take him on this one. This. Was not. Happening.

"Hey, as much as I like you guys in the ring, I'm pretty sure I'm still honor-bound to the government and all that to keep the peace," Marcus was saying, voice affable, but radiating all kinds of Pissed and Nasty. "So, move away from this one and we'll call it even, alright?"

"Call what even, Gimpy?" Broken Nose grunted at him. Obviously in a bad mood, probably because he was dripping blood on his shirt.

"The five hundred you owe me from the last fight," Marcus told him. His affability was cracking, and somehow that made the other guys really tense. "Now get the fuck out and stop causing shit, because it won't be long before I get my chance at one of you."

The three men all spat at the ground, staggered, but all the same action, and began to move. Claudio dropped the knife – it went point-down into Esca's loose shirt, missing his side by centimeters. The moseyed out of the alley like it was their idea all along, Brainless Lackey Two shoving Marcus' shoulder as he passed. It was like shoving a fire hydrant, for all the good it did him.

And then they were alone, Esca struggling to his feet, wincing as he felt bruises forming, and absolutely desperate to not be here. Bollocks, Marcus was _right there_.

"Hey, are you alright, man?" he asked, reaching out a heavy, slightly-scarred hand to help Esca to his feet. Esca took it – of course he took it – and winced again, this time at his own behavior. But Marcus' hands were _warm. _Esca had never been that warm, not for a long time.

"Those guys are thugs," Marcus continued, as if in apology, running his hand through his hair. Then he paused, focusing on Esca for what might have been the first time. "Hey, wait. You're that one kid, who's been –"

"No, I'm not!" Esca interrupted, grabbing up his dad's knife and gathering his things haphazardly. He brushed past Marcus, trying to make a break for it – shit, his ribs hurt - but Marcus grabbed his arm.

"Wait, I _know_ it's you – I've seen you –"

Esca wriggled out of Marcus' grasp and bolted. He heard Marcus yelling after him.

"Fine, you're not him, but you're hurt –!"

Then Esca was around the corner, he was gone, he was not coming back. Because the last person who had found him out had attacked him and he'd bitten his fucking ear off.

* * *

><p>He ran until he was sure he wasn't being followed, then ran some more. It stopped raining. He holed up in an alley in a part of town that was full of lavish family town homes and sports cars parked in the street and felt lucky that he hadn't been arrested for loitering. He didn't do much during the day – found a different roof, on top of a Chinese restaurant, tried to dry his clothes, found a ten dollar bill that hadn't been made off with. He didn't go looking for Marcus. He wouldn't. He'd been caught, it was over.<p>

He did, however, eventually make his way back to the hot-dog cart. It was late, dark, by the time the worked up the courage to return. He was safe.

He toed his way up the metal piping, hefting himself onto the roof, hating that he'd become familiar with it. His ribs hurt like hell. Fuck Claudio.

And as he was swinging himself over the wall, he happened to look down and straight into a pair of tired green eyes.

He almost fell off.

Marcus raised a hand in greeting, offering a half-smile and nodding his head, as if this was normal, as if this was his way of spending an evening – standing on some deserted corner in the middle of the night and staring up at Esca, who was scrambling for a toehold on a rooftop.

Fuck it _all_. Esca dropped back down to the ground, trying to be graceful and not look like a wounded animal. He was pretty sure he failed. He was only, what, ten yards away from Marcus? Caught like a rat trying to crawl into a hole but no matter how embarrassed he was, he wasn't gonna show it. He stood straight and tall and stuck his chin out in the mulish cast that his mother had always berated him for and pretended like he controlled the situation.

"What're you doing here?"

Marcus was smiling at him, but it looked shy somehow, like some schoolboy with the attentions of an upperclassman – something about Marcus just seemed so boyish. Even with this powerful body and aggressive stance, he looked young.

"Just walking back 'n forth for the last few hours, hoping you'd show up," he said with a shrug, trying to play it cool. Then he turned, as if ready to run away just as Esca had.

_No, please, don't go like that_, Esca was thinking, not moving.

Marcus looked over his shoulder, and smiled at him, a big smile, the smile Esca had followed around for two weeks. Marcus jerked his head down the street, some macho version come-hither, and began to walk away.

Esca followed, at a distance.

Marcus didn't turn around until he reached the stoop to enter the building. Esca wasn't far away from him, didn't bother to stay hidden. He caught Marcus' gaze unerringly and dared him to make the next move.

So Marcus did. He smiled, kicked the door open, and motioned inside.

And Esca was going to follow him. He was going to take the invitation and go inside when he realized he was shivering in the cold and stopped himself, clenching his teeth. His eyes hardened and he told himself _No. I'm not going to be welcomed in like a stray dog. No one is my master_. For a moment, in front of his eyes, Marcus was only another man, another propositioner, taking glancing interest, throwing him away. But now he could chose: Esca could say no. His pride told him to say no.

Maybe he caught the hitch of surprise in Marcus' eyes as his own stare hardened in determination. He didn't stay to analyze why. He just turned and walked away, feeling as if, for once, the pride that had sustained everything he was, had injured him.


	3. Chapter 3

**You guys are so nice… I love this fandom because you're just so much fun to chat with. **

**Sex scenes are really hard to write when sitting in your grandparents' living room. Also, that comment serves as a warning for the chapter.**

* * *

><p>Esca did not look for a customer that night, and he did not look for Marcus the next morning. He needed to find a job – a real job. He could not do this to himself any more.<p>

He had no idea where to start, nothing to build from, nothing but a high school diploma. He didn't have a phone - no way to contact employers - and he didn't have access to a computer. The day was spent scrounging for a discarded newspaper, trying to find classified ads, but by the time it got dark he'd found half a sheet of the entertainment section and felt absolutely pathetic.

He was also out of money. That night, he picked up two customers and felt even worse when, by the time the sun was lightening the dirty cityscape, he crawled back up on his rooftop. He felt cold and weak and he ached and could barely haul himself up.

The next day passed in much the same way; although he ducked into a small coffee shop, seeing a "Help Wanted" sign in the window. They took one look at him, grimy and shabby despite his best efforts, and told him flatly that they no longer needed help.

That night, Esca sat on the edge of the roof and stared up at the stars and wondered if he could have seen them better at home. But he couldn't go back home, in the quiet suburbs, now could he? He would not be a prodigal son; rather, he supposed, his father would be disappointed that he came back.

There was a movement down below, and Esca turned instinctively to look, cursing himself as he did because there, right there, was the very man he was trying hard not to think about.

Marcus was half-shadowed in flickering streetlight, but even from down the street Esca could tell something was wrong. He was limping, heavily and obviously, unlike the times before when Esca had seen him shuffle down the street with a stray wince or drag. Now he looked like a wounded animal, clenching his teeth and praying to make it home.

Esca stared a long moment as Marcus got closer to his hide-out, slipping under the corner street light where he had been waiting for Esca two days before. Marcus spared a single glance upward, and caught Esca's eye. His expression was stony, controlled. But he knew that Esca was there.

Esca did not go down to help him. Yet, because it was habit, because he could not help it – he told this to himself – he followed Marcus home.

* * *

><p>The door to the apartment had been left half-open, as if Marcus <em>knew<em>, and Esca wondered if he'd known from the beginning, that someone was following him and watching him. Marcus had known and had not made a move. He was waiting for Esca to come to him on his own accord.

Something about that thought gave Esca the courage to ascend the steps and slip into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

He was immediately in a small entryway, leading straight to a living area with a weary couch in the middle, a tiny kitchenette to one side, and a narrow hallway to the other. Marcus was sprawled across the couch, making it look tiny and fragile in comparison to his heavy, heaving body.

Despite the look of pain on his face, a smile struggled to the fore – another one of those broad, boyish, incomprehensible ones – and he quirked an eyebrow at Esca.

"You checking up on me?" he asked, and Esca could think of no reply. The grin grew, impossibly, wider. "Hey, man, that's alright."

"You were limping," Esca said stupidly.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Marcus assured him, sitting up on the couch– belying his words by wincing as he did so. "I was coming home and it cramped up suddenly. I didn't help that I'd… I'd hit it pretty hard today, is all."

Esca frowned, not sure what to do with the information, wondering if he could help in some way. Marcus voice stopped him.

"Who _are_ you?" he asked in wonder. "And why are you here, now, instead of before?"

Esca didn't know what to say to that, either, or at least not to the second question.

"My name is Esca," he said finally.

"You've been following me," Marcus pointed out bluntly.

"You knew, and didn't stop me," Esca returned.

"I never said that it bothered me."

Marcus broke off the oddly comfortable banter, his face crumpling as he hissed in pain. He rubbed ineffectually at his leg, probably making the cramping worse, Esca thought detachedly. He used to play soccer (football, his dad had told him proudly) and his teammates had sometimes cramped up, too, and so he'd learned, from watching the coach, what to do to make it better. It wasn't whatever Marcus was doing.

Esca sank to his knees next to Marcus, smacked his hand away, and began to run his fingers up his leg, massaging him through the denim of his jeans.

"Sh-shit, Esca –" Marcus grunted in pain. Esca started at the use of his name – but of course, he'd just told Marcus what it was, hadn't he? "Don't –"

Esca ignored him, working at the muscle with a half-practiced touch, trying to press the knot out. Soon enough, Marcus' tensed body relaxed, exhausted, against the couch.

"Better?" Esca asked, a little smug, more than a little proud that it had worked. He'd only half-expected it to.

"Yeah, a lot," Marcus said, peering up at Esca from his boneless position. "You… where did you learn that?"

Esca shrugged. "Does it do that a lot?"

Marcus shrugged back. "Sometimes."

"Why?"

Marcus frowned. "Old injury."

Obviously not something to be prodded at, then. Which made Esca want to prod at it more.

But his thoughts were cut off by a low, slightly off-sounding chuckle from the couch. Marcus was laughing.

"God, what am I doing? I have my stalker – you're a freaking stalker, man – in my house. And I come to find out my stalker is hot, and gives one hell of a massage. Am I lucky, or just going out of my mind?"

Esca stared at him, hard. "Do you _always _say exactly what is on your mind, like that?"

"No, never. Which is what makes this even weirder. And I haven't been drinking," Marcus assured him as an afterthought.

Oh his smile - not the big one, but the small, nervous half-smile that he'd given out on the corner two nights ago.

"Maybe tonight's just a night to be honest," Esca offered hesitantly. After all, he was here, wasn't he?

And then he bent over the couch, bracing his hands, one on the back of the headrest, the other against Marcus' shoulder, and kissed him.

It wasn't special, as kisses went; in the back of his head, Esca knew that it was nothing more than any other kiss. He was surprised to learn that he didn't believe a thing his brain was telling him. There was something hiding behind the tentative press of lips, the warmth and thrill as Marcus eagerly kissed back. Maybe it was simply the fact that Marcus _meant_ it. Esca had been kissed a lot in the past half a month, by people who thought of him as nothing more than a body. But, as he pulled away from Marcus with a gasp for air and a feeling as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, he watched Marcus' eyes and knew the only thing that the man was thinking of was _him_.

Marcus' broad, strong face was goofy with some kind of blissed out happiness; surely Esca had not caused _that –_ maybe Marcus was on drugs, maybe he _had_ been drinking.

"Was that you being honest?" Marcus breathed. "Because if _I'm_ being honest, I want you to do that again." Then he paused, a flash of shadow breaking across his brow, an awkward set to his jaw. "That is. If you… want to."

Esca almost found the need to strike him in a sudden burst of frustration. Instead, he crashed their lips together hard enough to bruise. "If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have followed you home," he pointed out, pulling away again and almost losing his balance, bent over as he was. Marcus quickly sat up, stood with only a little wobbling, and grabbed Esca's waist. This time, Marcus kissed him properly, deeply, taking control.

Esca almost let out a noise when he felt broad, warm hands smoothing over his abdomen, soft and oddly careful, snuck in under his shirt when Esca was not paying attention. He bit it back at the last moment, afraid of what it might mean. Probably that he was giving in.

He really, really wanted to give in.

And Marcus made that impossibly easy, moving their lips together, grabbing Esca's hip and pulling him infinitesimally closer. Oh _God_ Marcus was warm, and Esca gave a shiver in response, every point where their bodies were pressed together standing out in stark heat. There were hands on his back, running up his sides; he felt his nipple being rolled and Esca fell against Marcus, scrabbling for a hold or anchor against this all-too-sudden and consuming desire just to be filled with –

Their kiss broke again, and Esca, hating the sudden emptiness – he was always so empty, never had anything to hold on to, only the image and imagination of a man that he followed down city streets – but a strong palm against his cheek stopped him. He glared up at Marcus, whose dark-hazel eyes were as clouded by lust as Esca's were. But there was something else there, something frustrating and ridiculous and already undeniably _Marcus –_ a worry and anxiety, a wish not to go too far.

"_Esca_," he breathed, and Esca wanted to hear it again and again. "Esca, do you – can we – do you want to –"

Esca twisted out of Marcus' grip, taking quiet pride in the ripping disappointment in his gaze. Then, caught with a sudden sense of self-conciousness, Esca slipped off his tee-shirt, standing half-naked in the middle of Marcus' apartment. He looked silently at Marcus, half daring him, half grasping for reassurance.

Marcus did a double-take, then his face twitched into a half-grin. Wordless, he pulled Esca out of the room, into the hallway, and through the door to what was presumably the bedroom (judging by the _bed_ there, but Esca was too fired up on adrenaline and _want_ to pay much attention to fiddly things like details). And then he pushed Esca onto the bed, not roughly, but with a controlled strength that made Esca absolutely shiver.

So taken away was he that he committed the crime of saying exactly what he was thinking.

"I want to go to bed with your more than anything," he murmured, almost fondly, watching Marcus strip off his dirty tee shirt.

Esca's breath hitched a little – in envy, in desire – as he watched the smooth, shifting planes of Marcus chest. He was ripped, and athlete for sure, but the skin was peppered over by scratches and scrapes and scars, some half-healed, some as fresh as if they'd just been received. Marcus leaned over Esca, kneeling above him on the bed, and Esca's hands moved to stroke along the injuries reverently.

"What did you _do?" _he asked. Marcus didn't reply, just ran his own fingers over the blue swirling tattoos on Esca's upper arm, unable to help himself. They both were unable to stop, exploring skin with a single-minded intensity and unanswered questions. Their hips ground together – still clothed, but that was remedied by Esca himself as he tugged at Marcus' jeans meaningfully.

Marcus looked abruptly up, as if startled, but Esca wasn't going to let him hesitate any more – he kept tugging at Marcus' jeans, unbuttoning them one handed and sliding them off his hips. Marcus finally got the picture, batting Esca's hands away and leaving him to undo his own jeans. Esca wriggled out of his boxers as well, for good measure, and when he looked up at Marcus – utterly naked, golden and hard with lust and muscle – he found the man with the most endearing blush painted across his cheeks.

"Condoms?" Esca breathed, not the best thing he could have said, but necessary, because he wanted Marcus in him _now_. Marcus complied, sliding his chest over Esca's in an attempt to rifle in the bedside table. Esca barely bit back a sound as his lips brushed over Marcus' pectoral muscles, and he gave in, nipping at the skin as Marcus pulled back, slipped the condom on his dripping red member. He also returned with lube, and began preparing Esca sloppily and without rhythm.

Esca didn't mind in the least, feeling a burn that he never would get used to and for the first time since coming to this city feeling as if maybe this was something he wanted to do. No, not "_maybe_". He wanted Marcus – all of this ridiculous, clumsy character who was peering at Esca in concern mixed with the darkness of _wantwantwant_ and Esca decided it was time to put this overgrown dog of a man out of his misery.

"Marcus." His voice hitched warningly, embarrassingly. "Just do it. Just fuck me already."

Marcus finally lost his gaze of concern and gave in, allowing himself a full, toothy grin that Esca had never seen on him before, no matter how much he watched. Esca was glad. This grin was private and predatory and all his.

That was the last coherent thought – possession – before Marcus pushed inside him and everything went white and hot and liquid.

Neither of them lasted long – Marcus spilled first, but Esca had only been holding out until he did, wanting to see the way his face spasmed in pleasure as he found his release. Soon after, Esca came as well, moaning Marcus name into a bite on his shoulder.

As soon as Marcus was able to summon the willpower to pull out, he fell to the side, almost automatically wrapping his arms around Esca's waist and pulling him into a heaving, sticky chest. Esca let him do as he pleased, nosing into his shoulder for a long moment and breathing in sweat and sex and contentedness. Marcus' breathing soon evened out, and Esca knew it was safe for him to leave.

He wriggled out of Marcus' arms, not daring to look at him as he slipped into the bathroom, wiped himself off, then came out and began to dress. It was only when he had successfully re-buttoned his jeans that he felt a heavy, slick hand grab his wrist. He found himself looking into the lucid eyes of Marcus. They were dark and sated and nervous.

"Do you…" Marcus swallowed, his voice dry – but only because it was late, only because of what they had been doing – "Do you want to … maybe, do this again tomorrow night?"

Esca couldn't stop the happy twitch of his lips, before acting on impulse and kissing Marcus' forehead like he would a child.

"Yes," was Esca's reply.

"Do you promise?" Marcus pressed – surely more tired than Esca gave him credit for; his voice was thick and syrupy.

Esca reached with his free hand into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out his father's knife. With only the faintest tinge of regret, he passed it over to Marcus, pressing it into grasping fingers and working his wrist free in exchange. Marcus blinked blearily at the weapon. "You have something that belongs to me. I'm going to _have_ to come back for it."

Esca didn't say that the knife wasn't the only thing of his that Marcus held right now.


	4. Chapter 4

**On the suggestion of the lovely bachaboska, without whom there would be no fic, I've switched to Marcus' POV for this bit here. He's even worse to write than Esca is. Especially when he's sick and feverish. Damn. But I'm hoping he will move things along. Maybe. Whatever. **

Marcus woke up alone the next morning, and for a moment he wondered why he was surprised about that. Then his leg cramped beneath him and he curled up to knead at it savagely, swearing, and felt phantom fingers against it, much more skilled and gentle than his own –

The events of the night before swam back at him in lurid detail, making him flush. Then he felt like a pussy for being embarrassed. And then his leg hurt too much to feel anything more than pain.

As Marcus moved his other hand to clutch his leg, he felt something hard and metallic in his fingers. Esca's knife. His promise to return. He'd been holding onto it all night, and it was sweaty now, leaving lines imprinted in his palm. Marcus slid it onto the bedside table, next to his alarm clock and the small wooden eagle figurine that he'd had since he was a kid.

And now he could focus in earnest on the pain in his leg. _Shit_, not a good idea.

Marcus curled into himself tighter, thinking that it had never been this bad, not since he'd gotten the wound in the first place – roadside bomb in front of his vehicle; lucky his leg had been saved at all – and then feeling the skin of his forehead against his forearm as he realized why his thoughts had been disjointed and fuzzy behind all the stabbing pain. He had a fever, and it was already pretty bad.

Probing with ginger, but deliberate fingers, he brushed along the shrapnel wound in his leg. It was puffy and might be bleeding – or was that puss? – and he hadn't been lying to Esca; he'd hit it pretty hard last night, on the rooftop of Luxembourg Hotel. Claudio had been pissed about the incident in the alley, had specifically _asked_ to be his opponent just to fuck him up, and aimed for the leg, too. Something had obviously split open; something had been infected.

Growling and shaking his head, as if that would get rid of the fuzziness in his brain, he rolled out of bed and tried to stand. A combination of weak legs and a constantly-moving floor sent him to the ground again. Groaning, he struggled to one knee, then heaved himself back up, leaning heavily against the nightstand. Bracing his entire body against the wall, he shuffled awkwardly towards the bathroom. There was medicine in there, and disinfectant for just this moment.

Well, no, not this moment – his cheerful recovery doctors had told him to disinfect the wound the _minute_ it reopened and then _call them_. But a) Marcus was obviously a bit late, and b) He really could not afford the "consultation fee" a call to his doctors might incur. Would incur. Not to mention the trip to the hospital that would entail, and the tests and whiteness and machines –

Whiteness. That was the last thing that Marcus saw before he felt himself hit the tiles of the bathroom floor. He didn't get up.

* * *

><p>In fact, he was flat on his back again when he woke up. Actually, wakefulness was a generous description. His eyes didn't open more than slits, and all he saw was the lights of his bathroom – bedroom – where was he?<p>

He was in bed. He was in bed with the only two blankets in the apartment tucked in almost to his ears and his leg wasn't hurting nearly so abominably, though it stung with alcohol and antiseptic. But Marcus was shaking so hard he thought his limbs would fly off his body and his chest would burst open and then he was unconscious again.

Marcus didn't understand the words that were assaulting his ears but they were bitten out like curses, and then he recognized something –

"It hasn't gone down yet – fuck - need to get you to a hospital or something –"

And Marcus reached out with a numb hand and flopped it in the direction of the tight muttering.

"No hosp'tal," he croaked around a dry throat. It was a hundred degrees, a thousand, he was going to burn up. "Med'cine in … in th' bathroom."

"_Marcus_."

The voice sounded like a reproach, and for some reason it struck Marcus as funny. He almost laughed. He didn't, though – too tired. He felt himself being hefted into a half-sitting position by an arm behind his back, a plastic cup being fumbled, cursed at, and pressed to his lips, and he passed out soon after he felt the burn of grape-flavoured fever reducer hit the back of his throat.

* * *

><p>The third time that Marcus woke up was the first time that he'd been actually coherent. He knew the fever had broken – he was clammy and sweaty but he wasn't shaking and he could think clearly – but he was still hot.<p>

Oh.

That was why.

He wasn't alone in bed, that was the explanation. There was a warm, solid body next to him, debauched in sleep and limbs splayed awkwardly on top of the sheet – an arm had fallen almost protectively around Marcus' waist.

"…Esca…?" Marcus whispered. He coughed at the sound; his throat was painful in its dryness. Esca didn't stir. Groaning and feeling absurdly weak, Marcus tried to push himself upright, to go try to find a glass of water. Sliding out from under the sheets, he saw his leg injury had been bandaged tightly. The dressing looked fresh, and it was dry now. That was probably a good thing. Fucking Claudio couldn't kill him, anyway.

"Fucking finally, you're awake," muttered Esca sleepily, and Marcus turned to face him, taking in eyes dark with nighttime and sleep-touseled hair. "What're you doing, trying to get up?"

Marcus hadn't actually gotten much further than sliding his legs off the edge of the bed, and that in itself made him feel sick to his empty stomach. He shrugged. "Going to get water."

"I'll do it," Esca told him shortly, and, groaning with the vestiges of disturbed rest, rolled out of bed and padded to the kitchen. He was shirtless and wearing a pair of Marcus' oversized sweatpants, hanging inappropriately low on his waist. Marcus didn't mind. He didn't feel much more than a pleased curiosity.

Esca padded back with a coffee mug full of tap water, which Marcus drank greedily before asking. "What are you doing here?"

This wasn't the first time he asked that question, Marcus remembered. He also remembered that he hadn't gotten a straight answer the first time.

"You said 'do this again tomorrow', and your door was unlocked." Esca shrugged. "Do you need anything else?"

Marcus shook his head wordlessly, then, realizing that was a bad idea, just sank back onto the bed. He still felt oddly woozy, and the conundrum that was this man was not making his head feel any better. He was desperately tired.

Marcus heard Esca sigh, and the clink of the mug being set on his bedside table. Then there was the depression of the mattress as Esca climbed in the other side, he on top of the sheets, Marcus below.

The edges of sleep were groping for Marcus now, but he stubbornly tried to work something more than casual dismissal from Esca's lips.

"Why did you stay?" he mumbled, half into his pillow. His eyes were closed, but he felt Esca staring at him.

"You had collapsed on your bathroom floor. I … I wasn't going to just leave." The tone of his voice sounded pleading almost, sad.

"But you came to get fucked?" Marcus prodded, half-teasing, wincing and knowing that his natural filter was almost obliterated by exhaustion and illness. He barely heard Esca's reply, as close to oblivion as he was.

"…I'm not going to fuck you again until I get tested, Marcus."

Vaguely, that seemed important to Marcus.

"… I don't have an STD…" he mumbled. "Promise."

There was a long pause, and the back of Marcus' head told him that maybe the issue was resolved, and he could finally drop off to sleep –

"I'm a prostitute, Marcus."

"Oh."

Even that wasn't enough to keep Marcus awake.

"Don't be," he told Esca. "I don't want you to." Because it was true. "You can live here with me instead."

And then he fell asleep, letting out an amused snort at the look on Esca's face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello~~ Here, there's more. **

**I think it would be very, very worth mentioning that, if you haven't seen it already, the amazing and wonderful and magnificent and other lovely-adjectives Jaxie12 on livejournal has made me a podfic. A PODFIC. I HAVE A BOOK ON TAPE OF THIS FIC. CAPSLOCK CANNOT EXPRESS MY EXCITEMENT AND LOVE. So please check it out – here! **

… **so…. As for you lovelies who have actually read the book, I'm really sorry. I've kinda used Cottia for my own dirty needs – she's going to be Marcus' cousin. Because it's easy for me. **

* * *

><p>The fourth time Marcus woke up, the fever was gone, and so was Esca.<p>

He wasn't sure what to feel about this. Certainly, Marcus was not granted the mercy of not remembering what had occurred the night before. Shame coursed through him at his unconventional and uncensored offer. He could not, however, force himself to be ashamed of the offer itself – only of making it.

So. Esca sold himself. That was obviously not why he had slept with Marcus – no money had exchanged hands, unless Esca had pocketed something on his nightstand – and Marcus wondered if he was supposed to be disgusted. He was, to a degree, but only that Esca had belonged, at other times, to other men and women and …

Not that it mattered, of course. Because, apparently, _Esca_ had been the one to have been scared away. He'd run off.

Shuffling his way to the bathroom – Marcus could almost put full weight on his leg, he found with surprise – he resisted the urge to bang his fuzzy and buzzing mind against something hard. He'd known Esca was skittish from the moment they'd locked eyes. Could he really have been so blunt and awkward to scare him away again?

Marcus showered slowly in lukewarm water, afraid the heat would make him clumsy or faint. He'd unwrapped the bandage on his leg to find the wound pink and healthy enough, or at least to his untrained eye. Close enough, anyhow.

The house felt quiet.

Marcus hadn't been joking with Esca. At that moment, with his defenses down, he'd honestly wanted to live with him. Which was incredibly intelligent of him, considering they'd probably spoken to each other for a total of five minutes. And now he wasn't coming back. So Marcus should probably stop berating himself for being stupid.

When he finished drying off, he padded into the kitchen to find food.

There wasn't much left – there was a reason he had taken the fight with Claudio: he needed the cash, and even fights every two weeks got him enough to live on. He'd been holding out, trying to stay away from the ring, but right now his refrigerator had orange juice and cold pizza, and his cupboard was filled with pasta and instant rice. And that was pretty much it.

No, actually, it wasn't – there was a single can of chicken soup in the back, behind his three plates and the two chipped wine glasses. Fucking _score_.

Marcus was drinking soup from last night's coffee mug when Esca shouldered his way through the unlocked door. Marcus almost choked on half-warmed broth.

"You're back," he said unintelligently.

Esca had a plastic bag from a convenient store in one hand, and a white envelope in another. He sent Marcus a sharp look, setting the bag on the counter.

"I thought …" _I'd lost you_ "… that you left," Marcus continued stubbornly.

Esca shrugged, shoving milk into Marcus' fridge like he owned it and sticking food – real food, like bread and cheese and lunch meat – where it belonged. He didn't answer, but he kept half an eye on Marcus the whole time, watching. Esca was always watching him.

There was a tenseness in the room, and Marcus knew with a leaden feeling that it was just because of something stupid that he'd said when he was feverish and delusional.

"Esca…" he muttered, tasting the sound of the name, salty across his tongue. "About… last night – " Esca tensed like a fawn ready to bolt. It reminded Marcus of the first time he'd seen the mysterious man, caught following him, in the middle of the street. Esca had run away then. Marcus didn't want him to run away again. He changed tactic.

"Thank you. For patching me up. I … you didn't have to."

Esca didn't relax, he just shrugged, staring out from under sullen eyelashes.

"I …should be asking why you were following me, but I supposed I should just be grateful now, huh?" Marcus tried, hoping to lighten the mood. Esca was mulishly silent. Marcus feared that he was angry, but maybe… he was like one of his uncle's farm dogs. When they got backed into a corner, they lashed out.

Still, he had to get Esca to say _something_. So he bit the bullet. "I was stupid and sick last night but I'm not sorry. Whoever you are or whatever you do, if you need help, Esca, I want to – "

Esca moved abruptly, a violent, almost unconscious twitch and back-step, kicking over a kitchen chair with a loud clatter that cut Marcus off. Maybe that was for the best – Marcus wasn't sure how his sentence was really supposed to end. But the relief was quickly painted over by panic, because now Esca was striding towards the door, the letter in his hand crumpled in his fist, a beat-up backpack in his hand.

"I'm leaving," Esca said quietly, not angry, but tight with something like desperation. Marcus moved towards him.

"Esca –"

"Don't."

"Where do you live, Esca?" Marcus pressed intently, grabbing Esca's wrist. The other man jerked his arm, growling, but Marcus held firm. Esca froze, didn't fight, just glared, thrumming with nervous energy.

"…By Central Park," he muttered at last.

"You live on a roof." Marcus ignored Esca's wince. "You're homeless, Esca. I –"

"I don't need anything from you, Marcus," Esca returned flatly. "You don't know how much I cost, anyway."

That shut Marcus up right quick. He blinked at Esca, working his mouth silently. Finally, he murmured: "If you don't want to have sex with me, don't. You don't even have to like me. Just… stay."

That was when Esca walked out, dropping the envelope at Marcus' feet and closing the door behind him. He didn't slam it, didn't seem angry. He just seemed like one of his Uncles dogs – he was terrified, so he ran.

* * *

><p>Marcus sat at the kitchen table for a long time, staring dumbly at the door. He didn't move until the phone rang, jarring him out of his formless thoughts. He heaved himself to his feet, wobbling a little as his leg twitched, and answered it.<p>

It was Cottia.

"Marcus, you didn't show up today – I made way too much coffee and even Joey was wondering where you were," she said.

Marcus sighed, reaching down to pick up the envelope Esca dropped. "Sorry, Cottia. I got held up at the garage." If he told her what really happened, he'd get her brand of worrying over him: snide comments about how he really ought to get a woman in his life or at least a steady job and would he _please_ consider listening to his uncle because they were _just_ trying to help him –

"Sure, sure, your excuse every time," she told him flippantly. There was a smile on her side of the phone. "They work you too hard. You don't get paid much at the garage, anyhow, don't you Marcus?" No, he really didn't. His part-time stint at quiet car-repair a few blocks away wasn't much of an income. But he liked the machines and the men were nice enough and really, if Marcus was busy and had his hands dirty, that was when he was most content.

"Dad wrote to me again today. Told me to tell you his offer is still open," she said pointedly.

Marcus rolled his eyes, immediately tuning her out. His Uncle, and Cottia's father, had a farm out near Caledonia, Illinois. (As much as it sounded bizarre, it was a real place. Marcus had googled it). Ever since Marcus had been shipped home – in disgrace, he felt; honorably, everyone else said – this uncle that he hadn't talked to since he was three or four had been trying to get him to come out to the farm and live with him. Marcus knew it was his way of showing affection, or helping him get back on his feet after his prospects were decidedly destroyed. As much as the offer tempted Marcus, though, he was beholden to no man. Charity wasn't something he was comfortable taking, never mind that it was from family.

"But obviously you don't want to talk about that," Cottia grouched after a few moments of spaced-out silence on Marcus' part.

"Oh. Sorry, sorry, I'm just… a little distracted right now," Marcus murmured. He stared at Esca's envelope and the paper inside. The top was letterhead from the free clinic a few blocks away; the date of examination, two days prior, when Marcus had first gotten sick. Marcus probably shouldn't have read it. He did anyway.

All clean, the bloodwork said. No STD's, nothing abnormal. Marcus sighed heavily, partly in relief, partly because he'd been holding his breath.

"Well, whichever. Both Joey and I expect you next week, Marcus," she told him. Her voice softened fractionally. "You know that if you ever need anything –"

"Cottia, I've got groceries!" came a voice in the background. Joey had probably just gotten home.

"In a minute, baby!" she called back, voice muffled by a hand over the receiver.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Go," Marcus told her.

"Alright, Marcus. Goodbye." She sounded reluctant to let him off without a thorough third-degree as to why he didn't call and missed their regular coffee meetings and why he seemed so distracted. Still, the phone clicked down and the dial tone filtered into Marcus' ears.

He looked at the phone, then pressed "0", listening to the recorded voice reading the time and date. November 16th; he'd been sick or out of commission for two days. Today was… Saturday.

Oh. He was expected at the hotel tonight.

He really shouldn't go – he wasn't one hundred percent, not even close, although he'd been told this match was pretty much a sham anyhow.

It would take his mind off things.

So he packed up his gym bag and grabbed a pair of shorts and headed out, locking the door behind him.

* * *

><p>Four hours later, Marcus found himself in a suite bathroom, dunking his head under lukewarm tap water and probing at his bottom jaw. Nope, no loose teeth, although his lip has split with a vengeance. Outside, in the suite foyer, he could hear laughter and raucous merrymaking over fine alcohol and the sweat and pain of other men.<p>

Today's match had been an Event, although not all of them were. However sick Marcus felt walking out of the bathroom to the approving glances of the party-goers, at least, when he was not feeling his best, today was only an Event.

"Pretty-boys get picked for these," Quint had told him with a wink, the first time Marcus had been invited up to the hotel roof to face off against a strikingly slim black man. "It's entertainment of the most surreal and high-brow kind." Then he'd spat on the floor, ignoring the glares of women in cocktail dresses and the men holding them. "Just be grateful you're getting off the ground floor."

He'd meant basement brawls, the scary ones, the ones where you might actually break something important, could actually die; the ones frequented by underground crime lords and murderers and the dregs of the city. The real fights.

Quint had disappeared not long after giving Marcus that advice. Marcus was only-half worried, hoping that he'd simply buggered off for greener pastures, not been offed in some undocumented scrap. Quint had never liked fighting. If he had, maybe Marcus wouldn't have been able to be friends with him.

Today, Marcus had gone up against some Greek man, looking down at him through a thatch of olive-black curls and grinning like he was king of the world. He stood off-balance even when he wasn't fighting, and it had been an easy matter for Marcus to take advantage of that and exploit it. The guy had gone down in a heap, although for appearances Marcus had let him land one or two glancing blows. He knew how this was supposed to work – give them a show, that was his job.

It wasn't up here that he felt threatened. It was down below, in a different bar-basement or criminal under-hole every night where he could swear he heard people yelling "Death, kill him" and turning their thumbs, gladiator style.

No one ever yelled "life" down there.

Marcus slid through the party-goers, gleaning only the barest recognition from most men and women he bumped into – a few of the bolder guests patted him on the back or winked seductively (men, women, it didn't matter) as he passed, but then they were back to their alcohol and high society, and bloodsport was forgotten in the gentility.

He was almost free – down the back entrance to the suite; he knew the way – when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. His nerves were just shot enough on post-match adrenaline that he was about to heave an elbow into the guy's face. He stopped himself, recognizing Guern, who shoved a manila envelope at him with a pleased expression.

"Good work tonight. Hope the newbie wasn't too easy."

Marcus just shrugged. "Easy is alright once in a while." He took his packet of money quickly, as if someone would steal it from him.

"The Boss wants you back this weekend. Has a real match lined up for you."

Sending Guern second-hand meant he had a choice. Or something of one. And Marcus considered telling him no, knowing he had enough prize money to keep him occupied for a bit of time yet.

He remembered Esca running out the door, and felt his blood boil in frustration all over again.

"Yeah, I'll take it. It'll be a good distraction."

Guern nodded his approval, patting him on the shoulder. "You'll get details in a few days. Rest up, Marcus, this one sounds big."

Guern was decent enough, and Marcus hefted a half-smile over his shoulder at him before stalking home, letting the cold air of encroaching winter numb the pain in his cheek and lips.

* * *

><p>There was a man asleep in front of his door, when Marcus got home. Marcus felt the gym bag slide out of his fingers, and he wondered if he'd gotten knocked upside the head harder than he'd thought.<p>

Esca opened his eyes, blinking bad-temperedly up at Marcus. Marcus could barely make out his facial expression in the darkness, but he didn't much care. He wasn't thinking about anything very substantial, anyway, except for the ringing repetition: _He didn't leave me, he didn't leave me, he didn't leave me._

No one spoke for a moment; Marcus found himself incapable of much more than awkward gaping. Finally, it seemed that Esca became fed up with the stunned silence.

"I left my father's knife here," was his only explanation.

Marcus blinked, nodded, wondered if there was something that was not being said and praying that Esca wouldn't just walk away. He'd walked away three times. Marcus didn't think he'd be able to handle it if it happened again.

He brushed past Esca, fumbling his keys into the lock, swinging it open, gesturing inside. Esca went in first, turning on the light. But instead of heading back to the bedroom, where the knife still sat on the bedside table, Esca stopped and frowned deeply, staring at Marcus' face.

"What _happened_?" Esca asked, voice just on the side of strangled.

Oh. The bruises, the split lip, a cut up there somewhere; all that was on full display. Marcus ducked his head, trying not to meet Esca's eyes. He had never been exactly ashamed of what he did, but now, he thought, it was something that Esca would not appreciate. He scrambled for the lies that he always told Cottia.

"Just an accident at work. I was working under a car, dropped the wrench on my face, stupid huh?"

Esca narrowed his eyes, putting a thin, cold hand against Marcus' cheek. It was half-numb from the air outside, but Marcus relished the feeling anyway. It stung, where Esca's fingers ran over his cuts and injuries. He _liked_ it.

"Sit down, Marcus," Esca said quietly. "I'll clean it for you." He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and Marcus barely dared to hope. Esca hadn't left, hadn't run away –

Esca returned with a look of determination on his face, antiseptic in one hand and cotton balls in another and a glare of concentration and hardness that was cracking around the edges into something nervous and hopelessly lost.

He knelt in front of the kitchen chair that Marcus sat on, pouring the antiseptic into one of the cotton balls and very pointedly not looking at Marcus.

Marcus let one hand brush back Esca's just-too-long bangs, because he wanted to, because he couldn't help himself, because he needed to touch Esca.

Esca looked up, met his eyes, and even as Marcus felt the alcohol burn his injuries he felt a bubbling elation in his stomach.

"If you let me stay, I'll find another job," Esca told him, one hand steadying himself against Marcus' thigh, the other gently tending his injuries. "I'll pay you back."

Marcus couldn't hold back the broad smile of delight that strained at his split lip and made his bruises ache. It didn't matter. It didn't shake his happiness. Esca would stay.


	6. Chapter 6

**The story was giving me trouble … I'm sorry, if you were waiting, that it took so long. Thank you for sticking with me, and thank you especially to vock on livejournal, whose kind poke of encouragement really got my butt in gear to finish this bit.**

* * *

><p>Esca had refused to kick Marcus out of his bed, and Marcus had refused to make Esca take the couch or the floor. Which is how they wound up in this position, backs to each other and awkwardly squished on separate sides of the bed, like brothers forced to share at a hotel and unwilling to touch each other.<p>

It was almost six am and Marcus hadn't slept at all. This happened to be a pattern for him for the past… two days. Two days since Esca had promised to stay.

Things could _not_ get any more awkward, Marcus decided.

He'd promised to keep his distance. That was the point, wasn't it? "_If you don't want to have sex with me, don't_." Marcus kind of really wished he hadn't said that, actually. Not that Esca seemed particularly receptive to him, at all. They barely talked to each other, in fact – Marcus got up early to go to the garage, and stayed late. He figured that if he picked up extra hours or projects, he could get more money to support a housemate, and avoid said housemate as well.

Esca, for his part, was trying to make good on his promise to find another job. So far, the only forthcoming option had been a night janitor at an office building a bit of a walk away. Esca had started tonight. It made it so that their schedules would barely overlap at all, except for the early hours of the morning, which was to be spent… well, like this.

Finally, Marcus couldn't stand it any longer. He still had almost forty-five minutes before his alarm went off, but he rolled out of bed and stood up to go take a shower. He could feel Esca's eyes on him – apparently the other man had not slept much as well. Marcus ignored him as best he could.

The warm water only added to his agitation with his situation, making him hot and sticky. It was ridiculous. Something had to happen, or else he'd go mad with it. His only real consolation was his fight tonight. Usually, the underground ones scared him shitless. This was no exception, really, but the fear and excitement felt good, right now, instead of just sickening.

The phone rang.

"…fuck…" he muttered, turning off the shower, which had begun to grow cold anyway. He should just let it go to voicemail, he thought, grabbing a towel and intending to go answer it anyway.

Then it stopped ringing.

He heard Esca's voice. "…he's in the shower, can I take a message or something –"

Who was calling at six thirty in the morning? The only person Marcus knew who had that little regard for timing and propriety was –

"Very nice to meet you, Cottia, I'm sure…" Esca was mumbling.

Shit.

"Damn it, damn it," Marcus muttered, sliding out of the bathroom and grabbing the phone out of Esca's hands. Esca gave him an affronted look, and Marcus tried to mouth an apology, but he wasn't sure if it had been accepted. He had more important things to tend to, anyhow. Like damage control.

"So _that's_ why you haven't shown up for coffee!" Cottia exclaimed as soon as Marcus got his ear on the receiver. She sounded gleeful and fox-like, something Marcus was very, very wary of.

"You sound like you know something, but you really, really don't," Marcus muttered. He was very aware of Esca's eyes on him, watching him, analyzing, never showing anything on his face.

"Don't know anything? You have some _man_ with a _gorgeous_ accent in your room – your room! – at six thirty in the morning. What's there to know?"

Esca had re-curled on the far side of the bed, not even pretending not to listen. Marcus was hyper-aware of every move that he made.

"Nothing," Marcus answered her wearily. "Please don't sound so excited…"

"Me? I'm not excited, " Cottia purred into the phone. Marcus took the phone to the kitchen as fast as he could, unwilling to begin to explain while Esca was still within hearing distance.

"Listen, Cottia, it's really complicated, okay? And it's not what you –"

"Did you do him?"

"_Excuse me?_"

"Then it's exactly what I'm thinking," she said proudly.

Marcus groaned.

"Why did you call me at 6:30 am?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Oh!" Cottia said in excitement. "Right! Listen, dad called last night, real late – does he not understand time zones or something? – and he said that he's got something better for you than an offer to let you work the farm."

"I don't think I want to hear about it," Marcus grunted. He was kind of tired of his lovely, generous old uncle prodding into his personal life. It was nice, at first, but Marcus was done listening to him – or him-via-Cottia – trying to convince Marcus that being out in the country would do him good. Marcus was determined to make good _on his own_.

"I think you do," Cottia told him. She always _had_ been willful. "He has a neighbor – well, within the same ten miles or so, so I suppose that counts for neighbors, out there? – anywho, this neighbor just died and the bank is selling off and settling up – he's got parcels of land for sale, real cheap, house in for the bargain. I mean, even five, ten thousand can get you a good sized area. So dad was thinking –"

"Whoever gave Uncle the idea that I wanted to be a farmer?" Marcus demanded.

"Oh, don't be cross. He's just giving you a chance to make something of yourself."

And _that's_ about the time in these conversations that Marcus decided that he'd had enough.

"Make something of myself, Cottia?" he growled, trying not to raise his voice, trying not to let his anger bleed into the other room and alert his all-_too_-alert roommate.

"Marcus, don't be offended, but do you really think that garage is any sort of life at all?" Cottia pressed.

"We are done here," Marcus said with finality.

"You're only pissy because you know I'm right."

Marcus hung up the phone.

When he turned around, he found Esca leaning in the doorway, shirtless, blinking sleepily at him and trying to hitch up his sweatpants. He looked entirely too curious and a bit miffed and rather gorgeous. Marcus decided he really didn't want to deal with this.

"I've got to go," Marcus said shortly. "I'll be back late."

"Marcus –" Esca looked like he wanted to say something, but Marcus slammed into his room, dressing and gathering his things, including some stuff for the fight. He came back to find Esca in the kitchen, rooting around and trying to make coffee. Marcus attempted to breeze out the door without another word, but Esca's voice interrupted him.

"Who was that?" Esca asked, eyebrow raised, glaring determinedly into his coffee.

"My busybody cousin, _if_ it is any of your business," Marcus snapped, regretting it almost instantly. It was bad enough with the both of them being neutral; if Esca was _mad_ at him –

But Esca didn't look mad; he looked almost relieved, and was staring up at Marcus' face with a weird and mixed-up sort of expression.

"Marcus, I –"

Marcus really, really didn't want to say anything else that might be stupid or get him into an argument, though.

"I really have to go," he muttered, and didn't wait for an answer. He was out the door and down the street before he could even begin to think about why Esca seemed so concerned as to the nature of the caller.

* * *

><p>Whatever Marcus had thought that morning about looking forward to the fight, it was all lies. Right now, concentrating on quelling rising panic and a heaving chest and leaning against a non-descript door in an alley that smelled like piss, Marcus wondered if he'd be able to breathe right at all, or at least enough to make him go <em>through<em> the door, and down into the underbelly.

Guern was there with him, pointedly looking the other way and shooting concerned glances in Marcus' direction out of the corner of his eyes. It was probably supposed to be covert.

He'd drink when he got home; he'd drink a lot.

Marcus dismissed _that _idea as soon as he thought of it – he _never_ drank. It was less a moral compulsion to stay dry and more of a lack of funds, than anything. He didn't even have enough to keep himself in bologna and orange juice. It had been up _Esca _to buy groceries, when he had been sick.

Which would not happen again. Marcus would not take any of his money, not anymore. Especially not the way it was earned… but extorting _anything_ from Esca felt wrong, somehow. Even though he knew it was a mistake, Marcus wanted to support Esca, at the very least until he got a proper job and a proper paycheck and was back on his feet. Yeah, then he'd put in his fair share. Probably. Maybe.

Guern cleared his throat, kicking idly at the door.

Marcus was not scared, not really. It was more icy, trembling nerves, something he'd be worried about if he lost them. He'd seen people who lost them – He'd seen most of them at boot camp, ahead of him, barking orders on the practice field before the stupid day and that stupid ATV that lost a wheel and -

"You ready?" Guern asked, gently, but growing impatient.

Marcus pulled back from the wall, punching the air a few times in hopes of bleeding the nervous energy from his veins. "Sure," letting out all the air in his lungs. Before he could think about it, he swung open the door and ducked inside.

A quick jog down a concrete stairwell and through another thick steel door, and he was in the pulsing veins of a coiled and bloodthirsty beast.

It was a basement – if the lights were on and the people gone, it would be nothing more than a greasy, grey concrete box, a few doors, a few pillars keeping the structure up. But the house lights were off and the strobes on and the world took on a red-pink-blue-green hue, people moving in slow motion. The throb of dark and angry music seemed to incite dancing, but no one heeded that. They stuck to the edges of the room, drinks in hands, clinging to each other like limpets as they spoke in whisper-yells above the noise. Someone had erected a flimsy bar; folding chairs were set up along the walls. The middle was completely bare, just a slab of floor with a crack down the middle of it, from wear or stress or age.

It was toward the center of this crack that Marcus stalked now, shucking off his tee-shirt and sweats, toeing off his shoes, leaving him in gym shorts and bare feet.

The conversation ceased completely, but the music was still there, beating under his eyelids. The lights continued to flash and spray. All eyes were trained on him; he was their entertainment.

And he was solid and hard as granite – the pulsing fear from the alley only moments before was gone, pushed somewhere else. All he could think was: _Fight. At this moment you fight, and you win_. There was nothing else _to_ think. Fear wouldn't help him here, no emotion would, especially not the strange and wondrous things dredged up by the man currently waiting for him at his apartment.

_Esca…_

Marcus' opponent stepped into view.

He was large, and Marcus understood why the Boss wanted _him_ to fight. Most of the other guys that were in Boss Hadrian's pay were the lightweights, or the pretty ones, for the rooftops. Only a handful big guys, strong guys, could survive down here.

The man was about Marcus' height, strong and defined, dark features bordering on Asian, dark eyes bordering on feral. His face was set into a determined expression: no fear, no bloodlust, just raw willingness to _live_.

Marcus felt that he was this man's mirror, in that respect.

It was the man behind the makeshift bar that officiated the contest, sliding over to the center of the floor and standing directly on the crack in the cement that separated the two opponents.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the night's entertainment is about to begin," he said, voice smooth and oily, bearing excited. The pulsing music faded to a dull roar. "The rules of the fight are simple – first to a knock out wins, no outside help." Marcus could see the spectators salivating with lust for the fight. "Our opponents tonight are battle-tested – perhaps you even have a favorite. I encourage you to cheer for your men, because they are now in your hands."

They didn't even get names – "your men", they belonged to the crowd – and Marcus _felt_ it, that subtle shift of power from controlling his own destiny, into simply trying to stay afloat.

The officiator untied a red scarf from around his long hair, holding it in the air.

A moment of tension, two, and it floated to the ground.

Dark Eyes struck.

He threw himself at Marcus without a moment's hesitation, completely bypassing the tense dance of who should strike first. Marcus was utterly unprepared, and barely hefted up a forearm to block the downward smash to his shoulder. He caught the second fist, though, squarely in the gut.

Doubling over and wheezing, he watched Dark Eyes barrel in for another strike. Marcus dropped to his good knee, ducking his head and shoving his shoulder into Dark Eyes' stomach as he hurtled forward. This time, Dark Eyes was the one to go down, and they were both on their knees, panting for breath and watching each other warily.

God, the man was fast.

Marcus was on his feet first, testing his balance before deeming it good enough. Dark Eyes sprang to his feet as well, and this time they indulged in the shuffling, sizing up that it would take before one of them threw a punch.

Again, it was Dark Eyes first, directly towards the same bruise on Marcus' ribs that he'd inflicted moments before. Marcus dropped an elbow to counter, threw up his other arm to catch the second crack at his head, and threw a knee into Dark Eye's torso.

Hitting bone was a painful experience for the both of them. Marcus was forced to land heavily on his bad leg, and the other man let out a grunt, fixing Marcus with a stare that promised retribution.

People were hollering, now, deafening even over the music, shouting encouragements to kill and maim, but Marcus couldn't hear them at all. It was just him and the body in front of him.

Watching Dark Eyes move, Marcus was reminded of his time in training camp, watching the military, solid grace of men taught hand-to-hand. Dark Eyes moved the same way, square and precise, accurate but with little thought for _not_ hitting his target. The swings came with no recoil, no room for error in the body movement. It was hard to push over a brick wall, after all, but if you could get it off balance, nothing would save it.

Marcus' shoulder ached, and his side did, too. It was all he could do to keep throwing up forearms to catch raining blows against his upper body.

The other man had noticed by now, that Marcus was favoring one leg, and he looked pleased, suddenly throwing neat, roundhouse kicks into the mix.

These were harder to fight off – Marcus couldn't block them with his arms, and he only had one knee to use to rebuff any attack. He was off-balance from almost the beginning and blows kept hitting at such speed that he didn't have time to retaliate –

_There_.

Dark Eyes had changed up his round kicks to something straight-forward, aiming a stomp straight for Marcus' injured knee. But Marcus saw it, too, caught it with his opposite shin, and the man had judged the distance wrong; his leg was crunched up too close to his body. One shove, and he was stumbling backwards.

Marcus followed him, digging into his chest with a shoulder, one arm hugging his body until he had a good hold, and then he _dropped, _hung all of his weight of the other man, and he went down like a stone. It was a simple matter of bringing one palm up against Dark Eye's forehead and smashing the back of his skull into the concrete to knock him out completely.

Marcus stumbled back from the body on the ground as the crowd screamed for blood.

"- is he dead -?"

"- did he kill him -?"

"- get up, get up, finish him off -!"

The officiator grinned at Marcus, rushing to grab his arm and raise it above their heads like this was a boxing match, a professional affair.

"I believe we have a winner!"

He stepped over the blood pooling on the floor from the back of Dark Eye's head, as the man's handler rushed to get him to sit up. Dark Eyes stirred fractionally, and Marcus' body uncoiled in relief. He was alive. God, that was good.

The rest passed in a blur as Guern grabbed Marcus' forearm and led him out of the throng. Marcus waited until he was in the alley outside to throw up.

* * *

><p>Esca was curled up, asleep, by the time that Marcus got home; he must have only just come back from work. Marcus stumbled into the bathroom, taking a long shower in an attempt to wash the jittery ache out of his bones. His body was bruised all over, and his knuckles were covered in scrapes, but nothing was outstanding on his face, nothing that would cause questions.<p>

Yeah, visibly, he was fine; he only _felt_ like shit.

Marcus crawled under his blankets with a muffled groan, realizing Esca had hogged most of the blankets and not able to bring himself to care. He only turned on his side and waited for exhausted oblivion to overtake –

A sharp poke to his bruises caused him to yelp.

"Esca?"

Marcus turned over to find the man in question, tousle-haired and wide-eyed, staring down at Marcus with an almost murderous expression.

"What in the hell happened?" Esca demanded.

Marcus closed his eyes in exhaustion. "I don't think I've got to tell you all my whereabouts all the –"

"_Marcus_," Esca breathed, sounding equal parts sad, tired, furious, and worried.

Marcus' eyes flipped open again, and this time Esca was _so close_ to his face that his eyes crossed and he could feel warm breath against his lips.

"Marcus, why don't you ever tell me anything? You ask me to stay but you barely say a word to me. What is going on with you – you keep coming back _hurt_."

Marcus was now thoroughly confused, his sluggish, tired body unable to handle the puzzle that was Esca.

"I thought you hated me. You act like you hate me – ah… don't you?"

Esca recoiled, looking pained. "I don't - ngh, Marcus, you are so _stubborn_."

Marcus just blinked, trying to process. "Um…?"

"Do I actually have to _say_ it?"

"…yes…? Because otherwise I don't understand a thing you're telling me."

"I _like_ you Marcus. I only stayed because I do. I thought you understood that. Really. What kind of man nurses you through a bloody _fever_, if they don't like you? I let you _screw_ me, you oaf. I came back and asked to stay with you, and you're telling me that you really didn't –"

"Esca, shut up," Marcus said with a wide, stretching grin. "I like you, too."

Esca let his head drop to the mattress. "You're an idiot," he muttered into the sheets.

"And you like that," Marcus said, realizing that it must be true. Esca _liked_ that. Liked _him_. "You do. I can't believe it."

"Believe it, don't, I don't give a rat's ass anymore," Esca moaned in defeat, but that didn't shake Marcus' glee in the least.

"Does that mean I can have sex with you?"

He found his face buried in an accurately-hefted pillow.

"Go to sleep. You're fucking delusional. Talk to me in the morning," Esca ordered. Marcus couldn't see him, but he could swear that there was a smile in his voice.

So Marcus closed his eyes and let the feeling of a full bed wash over him as he felt a slim, strong hand curl possessively over his hip. He didn't even mind that it hurt his bruise there, a little. This whole venture was shaping up rather well.


End file.
